tripping, not falling
by A Reviewing Reader
Summary: "I have not fallen!" you say through gritted teeth. "I. Don't. Fall." Then, you let out a small sigh and, reluctantly, admit, much to Patricia's laughter, "I've just…tripped a little."


_Rated K+ for some swear words and also because I'm not sure how ratings work nowadays, so apologies if this is incorrectly rated._

_Also, I used a flower for the cover photo because it's orange, and, well, I have no idea what else to use... Random photo is random, I know. DX_

* * *

It's been _years,_ and, now, after one conversation, you're a blushing schoolgirl who can barely get out two words in his very presence?

No. You were — no, you_ are_ — over this. You were, _are_, done with that crush, that puppy love from all those years ago.

Yet here you are, seeing him across the way near the door to the kitchen, talking with his friends with that fantastic grin of his that just makes your knees melt, and your heart clench, and butterflies invade your stomach, fluttering around like the pricks they are and—

Stop it. _No._ Past. Tense. His smile _made_ your knees melt, and your heart clench, and butterflies invade your stomach. That smile does nothing: It doesn't, _shouldn't_, make your toes curl, or your face redden, or your breath catch in your throat—

Agh, _no_. What is happening to you?!

You clench your hands into fists as old memories flood back into your mind against your wishes: Secret movies that were so geeky that you would never admit to watching them to anyone but he who watched them with you, surprise gifts of things that he would remember about you that most people would just forget a minute after hearing: say, your love of orange Kit Kats where, on days when you were sad, he just seemed to know it was a rough day somehow and bring it to you those days that you just really needed your favorite candy, and then there were those late nights star-gazing as he tried to teach you constellations that you could never really remember well but, now, still sometimes you look up at the sky and see a few you remember after all these years, thanks to him, and a small smile would grace your lips with each recognized constellation because you remembered him and those damn memories.

But that's all they were: memories! Things from the _past_! _Snap out of it!_ you chastise yourself.

Despite your objections, remembering just those few things, that dorky smile that appears whenever you think of him comes to your face, and you look down at the shoes that you knew made your legs look long that you had taken forever to find to wear today because it matched your dress, and you cover your mouth to try and hide your stupid smile from the world because _no, you don't do this_, this lovey-dovey romantic stuff that makes you gag on any other occasion.

You want to hate him for making you feel this way, this uncertain, blushing puddle of goo that you have become at his mere appearance, but… you just can't.

Your brown eyes flick upward to look back at the crowd of people in front of you who were ignoring you for the most part for the last little while, wondering how many people paid attention to your emotional, but really mental, meltdown, only to end up _meeting his eyes_, those blue eyes that are the color of the ocean, of dazzling sapphires, of the cobalt sky existing just before the heavens turn to night, the eyes that you would recognize anywhere.

Your own eyes widen to saucers, and you glance away, back to your shoes and the hem of your peach and gold dress that you didn't particularly wear for him but because it was pretty and looked good on you, but, _fine_, once you realized he'd be here, too, it was a little bit for him as well. And, wow, you were blushing before, but now your face feels inflamed like you just peered into the depths of hell, and you think you should run but what would Amber think about you leaving after just an hour into the party, what excuse could you come up with that would sate her or at least get her off your case and not tip her off, changing her into matchmaker mode—?

You barely feel a tap on the shoulder when you hear his voice, and you are frozen as realization that he has come up and talked to you after all of this time, and he simply says, "Hey."

You gulp, and it sounds like the whole room can hear it, and you try to calm the blush that is practically covering you from the neck up because it has been years, and he is talking to you, and you have to be normal and collected and the mature, sophisticated adult that you have created yourself to be but all you can do right now is just turn and stare at him as your words are caught in your throat, and it feels like ages before you can say anything half-intelligent but really, thankfully, just a second has passed.

"Hi," you get out in an overly excited voice that you instantly regret having; you sound like the human equivalent of an overjoyed Labrador welcoming its owner home.

He's smiling at you, that goofy smile of his that makes you bite your lip to try to stop from smiling idiotically back, and you automatically begin to fidget with the golden tulle making up the skirt of your dress.

Why are you so nervous and excited at the same time? You don't do these romantic things and fall for all these stupid clichés. _You don't do these things._

"How are you?" he asks.

"Uh, good," you say, cracking a sheepish smile at your stupid responses. "I feel pretty tall for once, almost the same height as you, but with these heels, obviously." You laugh nervously and nod toward your shoes, your nude heels that go well with your dress and make your calves look awesome, and he glances down at your shoes only to return to your eyes a second later. You briefly wonder if he looked you over in that second and secretly hope he did because you didn't even dress up for him, but hell, you're sure glad you dressed up for tonight because you can't imagine dressing, can't imagine even looking like a slob after not seeing him for so long, so you hope he at least looked at you and saw that you still look half-decent after all this time.

He laughs lightly at your height joke, and you wonder if it's a pity laugh or if he actually thought it was funny because that was terrible, and you will be going home tonight and sitting in bed wondering how on earth your mind didn't filter something as stupid as that out of your speech before it came out of your mouth.

You try to salvage the conversation with your own question: "How have you been?"

"Great. I—I just got a position in town to research and study astronomy at the conservatory." He's beaming. For good reason, as he's in his dream job, studying the stars that he once talked to you about so long ago.

You smile wider, genuinely happy for him and his achievement. "Astronomy, wow. I know it's been a dream of yours and that's just amazing! Congratulations!"

You feel like you should hug him, but it's been so long that you wonder if it would be weird. But you were friends, and still are, right? Would it be that weird? After wrestling with the decision, your mind finally sends the message to your limbs to go and hug him— But you waited too long; it's too late.

"Yeah, I still can't believe it's happening," he said. "Really, it has been a dream these past few weeks, moving and learning about my new position, and—" He sighed contentedly. "Enough about me, though. I heard you're in photography now, and I remember you loved taking photos when we were younger. How's that been going?"

Your beaming smile lessens slightly at his inquiry. As nice as it is to hear that he remembers your own dream, you are nowhere near the top of your field like he is. You silently hate yourself for being nowhere near the top. Sure, you're a photographer, like you've always wanted to be, but you're shooting things that only help you pay the bills and buy the occasional dress or two. You're barely living your dream while he's living his. You hastily come up with reasons as to why you're not a world-famous photog after all this time but come up with depressing, stupid excuses that aren't worth verbalizing. You decide to simply skirt the truth and focus on the positive, glazing over the struggles you've faced in trying to become known even locally and gaining a fan base because you doubt he cares about your woes and sob stories; you should - no, you have to - match his positive story with your own.

"It's been fantastic," you say honestly. "A dream, like you said. I'm so glad that I have the chance to even shoot photos, and, even if it's not what I'd usually prefer to shoot, I get to do what I love for a living, which is great." You're rambling in circles at this point, being redundant as you run out of things to enthuse about because it hasn't been all sunshine and roses like you thought it would be when you were younger, but you keep going with your empty, happy words because you want to condense years of a long-held dream into sentences, hoping that he'll listen and maybe understand you like he used to, like no one else has ever been able to.

"Yeah, it's been nice," you continue. "I love it, you know? Like you love astronomy, I love photography. I just love capturing a moment in perpetuity and preserving the emotion, that one moment in time, and—" You glance over to see him still seeming to be engaged in the conversation, though you think you see him look over at something else, and, great, you're boring him. You change the subject because _wow, you're conceited_, talking about yourself and your dreams in a one-sided conversation when you haven't talked in ages, and you have barely heard anything about him. Who knows when you two will speak again so why not hear about him and the things he's done because then you can hold onto those memories when you don't see him; it's not the time to just spout off about yourself because he most likely, really does not care that much about your depressing tales, despite how interested he seems to be.

"Never mind," you say. "It's silly. I should really stop rambling about myself. Uh, how's moving been? Need any help?"

He opens his mouth to say something, but someone calls him over before he can say anything. He sends you an apologetic smile and heads over in the same direction that you thought he glanced over during your little self-centered spiel without another word.

You keep up the smile for a second after he turns and goes, then drop it and feel the mortification of your conceited rambling descend upon you. Just before you can bolt out the door to avoid any further embarrassment in front of him and anyone else, excuses for Amber and everyone else be damned, a familiar voice speaks to you.

"You still fancy him, don't you?"

You shoot a glare at the owner of the voice, a redheaded mix of sarcasm and snark with just a touch of know-it-all: Patricia Williamson, your long-time best friend who knows the exact answer to her question and yet still asks to piss you off. She wears a knowing smirk because she knows with absolute certainty that, _yes_, you do still fancy him after all of these years like the obsessed, desperate loser you are, and you've not only fallen hard into the stupid clichés and disgusting lovey-dovey goo that you've always detested, but you've fallen in the most undignified, graceless way possible because _of course you did_; you wouldn't fall with sophistication and elegance because you're falling and who ever fell with dignity?

"I have no idea what you're talking about," you snap, crossing your arms over your chest with a stubborn pout.

Patricia rolls her eyes at your denial, elbowing you in the ribs, just under your crossed arms. Your eyes shoot daggers at her, annoyed that she knows that you're bluffing so hard because she knows that you know: You've talked her ear off about this little infatuation of yours for so long that she knows the telltale signs of when you're falling, especially when he's around.

"You've fallen for Fabian so hard; you're practically _in love_," she teases. "Don't deny it, Joy!"

Your face flames tomato red for seemingly the umpteenth time today.

"I have not fallen!" you say through gritted teeth. "_I. Don't. Fall._" Then, you let out a small sigh and, reluctantly, admit, much to Patricia's laughter, "I've just…tripped a little."

* * *

_So, you know you haven't been on Fanfiction in forever when you have to look up how to make a line break..._

_Yeah, I'm still alive, and it has been more than year since I've posted anything, and for that, I'm sorry to anyone who hates me for not writing anything and basically being MIA for months._

_I've been in college and didn't realize how busy and draining of creativity for writing it is. Especially going into journalism where I'm writing a lot more than ever before. So, yeah, I've also just had a lot of ideas and stories that I didn't think were good enough to post, but that's going to change because I want to, need to, be more active on here again._

_Anyway, this was basically inspired by an encounter with a crush of mine Sunday, and, instead of making me feel better about it all like I thought this would, as writing usually does, it made me rethink what I thought was a squee moment and turned it into a "wow, I'm talking a lot, and he's only listening to be nice; agh, I'm an idiot why" situation. O_O And why did I write about Fabian and Joy? Why not Fabian and Nina? Well, I don't know, but I feel like I connect to Joy a bit more than Nina in that Joy has crush issues throughout the show more often than Nina, though the mental rambling might be more of a Nina thing, at least the Nina character I usually write._

_Also, as I wrote this, I remembered a story from the Sonny with a Chance fandom that I read about Chad (maybe spoilers for the show?) dealing with his feelings for Sonny, which is where the "I don't fall" thing comes from. I wish I could accurately credit the story I'm referring to, but I actually do not remember the name and haven't been able to find it, so if anyone knows it/the author reads this for some reason, let me know and I will give credit!_

_I hope this one-shot - they're still called that, right? I haven't been away that long? - is good enough for my return to Fanfiction. And I swear it will be a return. It won't just be me saying, "Hey, I'm here!" then never speaking or posting again for ages, like I think I did last time. Sigh, I really need to get better at that._

_So, please review if you feel inclined to: C__onstructive criticism is always appreciated, especially for this story, which is probably riddled with errors that I haven't noticed. Also please__ share/PM me your own stories so that I feel like I'm not the only one who despairs over crushes, even though I normally hate the romantic stuff that I'm experiencing right now. :P_

_~Ary_


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